Miscast I
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have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,So sharp that the air would turn its edgeWere it to be twisted in flight.Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,And the mark of them lies, in and out,Worm-like,With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.My brain is curved like a scimitar,And sighs at its cuttingLike a sickle mowing grass.
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